


The Conquest

by Demidea



Category: Warcraft (2016)
Genre: M/M, one of my friends asked for subverted slave au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 14:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14499228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demidea/pseuds/Demidea
Summary: After many, many weeks of siege and battle, Anduin Lothar has finally claimed his prize: Victory, and with it, the city of Dalaran. City of Magic. But with Dalaran comes the real challenge: what is he to do with this city? Why would his king want it in the first place? And what is he to do about the young mage that can't seem to hold his tongue?





	The Conquest

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's been awhile since I posted here. Just wanted to give a little update: My drafts are full of chapters for other fics including but no limited to Cloudcatching, Outlandish, and the fic prompt I received for the LT fest this week ([go check it out! ](https://khadgar-is-bae.tumblr.com/post/173443148623/liontrust-fanwork-fest)).I'm still around, guys, just busy.

Everywhere Lothar walks, he notes the people are struck dumb by his appearance. It doesn’t occur to him why until, while examining the fine grain of the snowy stone that made of the inner palace’s pillars, he reaches out to touch and catches sight of the blood and dust caking his hands. Four days battle, a month’s siege before that, all following strict military provisions under the parched summer sun. No wonder these soft-bodied fools gawked. He and his men must look barbaric to their noble eyes. Good. He’s been sweating and bleeding long enough that he’d wear battle proudly, stark as it was against the immaculate velvets and silks.

“Garona.” His right hand appeared at his side without a sound. “Inform the servants they are to prepare a feast, and to direct the men to the bath house, where they’ll send healers and whatever passes as ale from whatever passes as a cellar here.”

“And if they resist?”

Lothar’s eyes sweep the room, noting every face turned to him. He throws out his arms, and starts to yell, “Your leaders are dead or captured.” Garona rolls her eyes, but yells the impromptu translation beside him. “Your King, your new King, will arrive within the month, and if he sees you’ve treated his men with hospitality, your acceptance into the kingdom will be swift and bloodless.”

After she finishes the last translation, she glances to him. “Is that really a promise you can make?”

Lothar shrugs. “Llane is not unnecessarily cruel.”

A low chatter rises around them, but some of the women take tentative steps forward, beckoning for the men to follow them. Lothar observes the men that follow carefully, searching for signs trouble, when he feels two hands clap him simultaneously on either shoulder.

“I’ll keep an eye on them, sir,” Varis says from his left.

“And I’ll keep an eye on him,” Karos adds from Lothar’s right when he scoffs. Then he inclines his head. “Looks like you have an admirer.”

Lothar follows his gaze straight into a pair of brown eyes, bright with undisguised rage. A boy, or rather a young man with a boyish face, wearing rich blue silk. His dark hair falls in glossy curls around his ears, and he sports the well-groomed beginning of a mustache and beard.

Lothar winks, causing the boy’s lips to thin, his jaw clenching. After a few minutes of sustained eye contact, he whirls around and storms off.

“Perhaps he went to draw you a bath?” Varis says, matching Lothar’s shrug. “Speaking of, I better go stand guard. No telling what treachery these mages can get up to with perfumed water.”

“You joke, but I want you all on your guard. Bathe and eat in shifts, and for Light’s sake, don’t eat or drink anything they give you until one of their own tests it. These are not our people yet.”

“Yes, my lord.” Karos answers to cover for Varis’ exaggerated eye roll. The servants move with tentative freedom, still wary of Lothar’s men but at relative ease now that they know what was expected of them. Two women approach Lothar, both beautiful in their own right, beckoning for him to follow them. “Will you be needing a guard for your own bath?”

Varis lets his eyes wander down the women’s bodies. “I wouldn’t mind volunteering.”

“And what a fine guard you’d be, allowing them to gut me while you examine their breasts for threat.” Varis punches his shoulder, but waves him off in good spirits.

Lothar allows himself to be lead away, through the impossibly tall, narrow arches and into what appears to be a private bathing area. For a moment, his vision is obscured by the layers of diaphanous cloth acting as dividers. Perfumed air wraps around him, thick with steam, causing the leather straps and undershirt to mold to his skin and pull uncomfortably with every movement. Not that this is an issue he has for very long, the women that lead him here reach to take off his armor for him, pausing only at the last minute for permission when he turns sharply to scrutinize their movements. After a minute of trying to cow her with solid eye contact, he acquiesces, and allows them to strip his armor, but holds up his hand to stop the red-head from disappearing with his recently removed bracer.

“Ah. This stays in sight.”

She seems confused at this order, though whether it’s caused by their apparent language barrier or over the apparent mistrust is unclear. Not that it matters to Lothar, so long as his armor stays in sight. Aside from that minor hiccup, the women are efficient in getting him undressed. There’s a moment of hesitation, when the dark-haired servant kneels to remove his greaves, where she looks up at him in askance, lips parted with offering. He can feel her breath on his hip, and his cock stirs with interest, but it’s purely physical. He waves her off, taking her puzzlement and lack of relief as either good training or a compliment. Then, he is alone. He eases into the steaming water, feeling all the aches and pains were leached from his body.

“The waters here are spelled to heal and replenish.” Or perhaps, not so alone. His voice is rich and low, to the point where he could have genuine gravitas if he ever lost the sneering brattiness. Lothar cracks an eye to see the boy from earlier,standing by the wall with his arms crossed. So he knows Lothar’s language, albeit with a slight accent.

“It’s rude to intrude on a man’s private bath.” With effort, far more than it should have taken, he turns over in the tub, throwing his arms over the rim of the pool so he can face his visitor. “Unless you plan on joining me.”

The boy makes a face like Lothar just suggested he lick the underside of a horse. “This is my master’s private bath, I’m required to be here to feed the magic to the water.”

“Does that make me your master?”

The boy pauses his stride into the room, his expression hard and unforgiving. He stops at the edge of the pool, sinking to his knees with the grace of practice. That, more than any other beauty, causes Lothar’s cock to twitch. “I would say it makes you the intruder.”

His grin is slow and easy as he sinks back into the water. “And you would be bold to say so.” Not to mention interesting. More interesting than Lothar expected from a conquered house, certainly more thrilling a prospect. “What is your name?”

“I could kill you,” the boy says instead. He looks curious, and allows his eyes to lower from Lothar’s, down his shoulders and chest to what lay between his legs. Lothar doesn’t mind, and the boy, though overt, didn’t seem lascivious. “And all your men.”

Lothar processes the threat idly, contemplating dipping below the surface to ease the rawness caused by wind and sun and sand. “I think you’re exaggerating. Maybe you could kill me, and maybe most of my men as well, but I doubt you’d be able to kill  _ all _ my men. Those of us that survive would fight like demons. Correct me if I’m wrong, but most of those with my men are purely servants, right? How generous with their lives do you think my men would be after seeing their friends and brothers die? And once the King learned of the death of his brother, what do you think would become of the Council of Six under his watchful eye?”

No answer. Lothar cracks an eyelid, and sees the boy’s roaming eyes had stilled into a mask of anger. Good.

“Now. Your name.”

“...Khadgar.”

“Khadgar,” he draws out the syllables with relish, “I think you’re going to be my new friend, Khadgar.”

He can feel the boy glare, even as he closes his eyes and sinks under the water.

 

Later, once he’s wrapped in a fine robe and his hair is clean and untangled for the first time in weeks, he surveys the men as they eat and drink.

“Lothar!” Karos calls out, red with drink already. He grabs a goblet from nearby and lifts it above his head. “Come! There’s no spit in the food! They didn’t even spike the wine!”

Varis is halfway into a freshly roasted chicken wing, but he nods affirmative. Garona appears to his right, cleaner than he last saw her but otherwise unchanged. They walk together around the dining hall. “One of the serving girls died by her own poison. She thought she’d slip it in the third bottle of wine. No one else has tried since. No other deaths to report.”

Lothar nods, he’d be more worried if they  _ hadn’t _ tried to kill his men. “You told me Medivh said he’d take care of all the mages left behind.”

“He has not?” A prick of surprise in her normally guarded tone. “He did not report any abnormalities to me.”

“Perhaps that was an accident. Or intentional.” Lothar shrugs, accepting a plate of food that had been thrice tested, once by one of his own men. “Either way, he’ll be furious when he finds out.”

“At himself.”

“Or at me, for finding out almost immediately.” 

His eyes pick around the room, and he notes Khadgar isn’t among the servants. 

As a younger man these times after battle, when his men were victorious and the threat of attack seemed far off, were times of ecstatic revelry. Joking and drinking and whatever the relief of surviving another battle where others had not would cause a man to do, all were things he was once fond of. Not this time. As he watches his men laugh and eat, he finds himself unable to connect. Not even the taste of tender meat or the luxury of fruit can awaken him to the joy of a battle finished and won. A slight commotion attracts the attention of Lothar. Several of the women filtered from the serving rooms, dressed in shimmering silks that left their shoulders and hips bare. The lead has silver hair, likely enchanted, and ice blue eyes that glitter. She stops at the spearhead of the other women, sliding her foot out and placing a hand on her hip, rolling her shoulder in a long, sinuous movement that travels across her entire body. Somewhere in this room draped in silks, music pours in, and all the women start to dance.

And suddenly, Lothar is very tired. He signals Garona, who nods and immediately disappears into servants’ quarters. Karos is mesmerized by the display, his goblet halfway to his lips and eyes wide. Varis acknowledges his Commander with a cursory glance, but what he does register causes him to double take and pull himself together. “I’m going to retire. You both know your orders: no bedding the locals until we’re sure of their status.”

“Yes, milord.” They both respond in tandem.

Garona reappears with a serving woman trailing her, the red-head from earlier. “They have a room prepared for you. Will you need a guard?”

“More than likely.” Night had fallen in the intervening hours, and the winding hallways that opened on one side to the evening revealed a violet sky shot through with pinpricks of light. The room at the end of their journey is a circular chamber lined with books. Typical of Dalaran, the desk is larger than the bed, though the bed is plenty large and covered in pillows. He must have been led through a portal or two; when he looks through the thick purple curtains, he realizes he’s far higher up than the easy walk suggested.

“Send for Khadgar.”

The red-head’s eyes widen, enough so that Lothar has time to appreciate that they aren’t just brown as he initially thought, but dark amber rimmed in black. After a moment, she nods and disappears.

“I take it not bedding the locals is exception to rank?” Garona asks. He flashes her a smile, trying to ease her disapproval.

“Relax, I’m not going to bed him. He’s our resident mage, and I’d like some insight on our new city.”

She rolls her eyes, just as a flash of blue lights the room. She’s gone before the light clears, melding into the room in case he required her stealth. Khadgar, on the other hand, is very much present and stands next to the desk, his arms crossed. “You summoned me?”

“Well, that was fast.” Lothar gestures for Khadgar to sit at the desk’s chair, taking a seat on the bed himself. He can already tell he’ll have trouble sleeping, the mattress sinks under him with ease. “Eager to please?”

Khadgar rolls his eyes, though he sits at the desk all the same. “Eager to not to incite anymore violence.” He watches Lothar remove his shoes. “Wisteria told me your shadow told the servants to report if any of your men touch them.”

Normally Lothar would keep his shoes neat by his bed where he can roll off and have them on and laced at a moment’s notice, but there was something about the way this boy watched him that made him throw them across the room. He flops back as soon as they’re off, groaning as his spine decompresses and his back muscles relax. When he finally turns to look at his guest, he finds the puzzled look replaced by a frown of disapproval.

“Why?”

To think this boy, in the private bedchambers of the leading military authority of his city, chose to question him on his orders and not about his own personal predicament. Lothar had thought such a summons would shake the kid up, not peak his interest. Contemplating, he nestles down in the mattress, trying to convince himself the softness is a comfort and not a disconcerting lack of support. Khadgar is too curious for his own good, and too careless to contain it. If Lothar hadn’t known the city he conquered was a city of scholars, he’d think Khadgar a spy, and a bad one at that.

“You really want to know?” Khadgar nods, sharp and impatient. “Get comfortable, because it’s a story. My king, your king now, once made a great mistake. There were lands to his south that ancestrally had pledged loyalty to his great-grandfather, but had fallen to disrepair and neglect in the intervening generations and had been reclaimed and rebuilt by the local nobility. When Llane took the throne, said noble didn’t seek to pledge his loyalty. Why should he? The crown Llane wore had done nothing for his land or his people to earn their service and take part in their bounty.”

He realizes belatedly that this is not a story he can tell lying down, and rolls over to spring to his feet, then wanders to open veranda. By the Light are these people ever optimistic about the weather with their buildings, with so much left open to the elements. Below them, the city lamps are lit, the glowing crystals embedded in much of the paving casting a soft glow. He spares a glance at his companion for the evening and is surprised by what he finds. Either he’s a better storyteller than he knows, or Khadgar’s curiosity had him lapping up any and all information he can get. Whichever was true, for the first time since they’ve met the boy’s relaxed, his bright eyes attentive without hostility.

“The other nobles began to whisper, spread rumors that maybe their new king wasn’t up to the task. Llane, though young, knew just how quickly rumor could strike action, and made a move to contact the absent noble. Months pass without word. Enraged at the slight, Llane and his armies marched to the gates of the noble’s land, but they were met with surprise. It turns out, the other nobles had seen this move coming, and had been sabotaging the messengers sent to this noble’s land, so when Llane marched up with the full might of Stormwind’s armies behind him, he was met by unguarded farmlands and small, unfortified keep under the watchful eye of the delinquent noble’s son, who had just greeted his eighteenth year. See, unbeknownst to the king, the noble’s wife had taken ill earlier that year and they had left the land in search of a famed healer in the southern jungles.”

Khadgar must hear the rasp in his throat, because in an obscenely careless gesture given their current political stances, he casts a highly visible spell that summons a decanter of wine and two chalices. Lothar tenses, out of the corner of his eye and out of Khadgar’s entirely, Garona appears, ready and waiting. Lothar pointedly doesn’t look at her, choosing instead to stare at the boy, unimpressed. Khadgar pours him a glass and offers, and when Lothar doesn’t immediately take it, looks confused.

“You drink first.” Lothar reminds him lightly, causing the boy to grimace. He complies, however, making a show of bringing the cup to his lips, his throat working around the gulp, and offers the cup, his tongue flicking out to lick the dark stain on his lips. “Don’t bother with the second glass, we’ll share this one.”

“You don’t trust me?” Khadgar asks, sounding more amused than anything.

“I don’t make it a habit to trust anyone.” Lothar flashes him a smile, drinking deeply from the cup. The wine is smooth on his tongue, too sweet for Lothar’s tastes, yet oddly refreshing. “What wine is this?”

“Hm? Oh. A local wine, the grapes are grown in the Gardens. It’s easier to import, of course, but there’s been a significant push to develop a source within our walls, for reasons you’re well aware of.”

Lothar winks over the rim of the cup. “I do enjoy sowing enterprise wherever my king sees it fit to send me.” He takes one more swallow of the too-sweet wine, and passes the cup back, gearing himself up for the rest of the tale. The wine is stronger than it tastes, he can feel it coating his stomach in warmth, similar to the sun-warmed stone he’s leaning on while looking over the city. “Where was I?”

“The noble’s son met King Llane and his Army at the gate of his keep.”

Dalaran glimmers under his eye, but he’s not looking at it. “The king himself wasn’t much older than the noble’s son. Perhaps that’s why he did what he did. An older, more experienced leader would have-” Lothar stops short, and reaches for the cup. It’s not worth meriting what he would have done had he been at Llane’s side all those years ago. “He forced the keep to house his men, imposing soldiers on every household. They were to entertain them, and to see to their needs above their own. And while that was annoying in and of itself, Llane had, on some master stroke of fate, arrived just before harvest.”

Lothar is overzealous with his next gulp, draining the cup so quickly a trickle escapes and runs down his chin. He wipes it with his sleeve, handing the cup over to be refilled.

“So, grudgingly, the noble’s son relented, worked himself ragged to please a king he had little respect for while running a harvest with half the hands needed. This took so much of his time, the noble’s son didn’t notice the king had taken to one particular beauty in his household.”

His tongue stills, and he finds himself unable to voice the next part of this story as if it happened to another noble, or someone else’s family. He remains silent for too long debating with himself over whether or not to trust such an intimate story with essentially a complete stranger. The night sky above them is softer here, the light of the city screening all but the brightest stars. Lothar blinks, and fixes his gaze on Khadgar. The boy had been studying him, his brow furrowed, lips parted as if he’s been mouthing words to himself. He startles at the eye contact, though, eyes going wide as if caught.

He’s an honest one, Lothar determines. Khadgar is as open here as he was when Lothar arrogantly toured his acquired city, and when he confronted Lothar in the baths. And were he a member of Llane’s court, Lothar would think him an imbecile to express so freely, but he’s not. He’s a member of a fallen city, subject to Lothar’s whim, and Lothar’s whim values the seemingly fearless approach the boy has taken to this.

“I should have noticed, should have considered the probability that Llane would not have known how many children my father had.” Lothar watches the realization dawn on Khadgar’s face. “He had invaded my land knowing nothing else of us other than what was kept on the meager record Llane’s weak-willed grandfather kept, he couldn’t have known a single thing about my family. I should have remained in the keep, suffered his arrogance for the sake of my house, but I was too proud.”

Lothar returns his eyes to the cityscape. “And without me there, Llane met a beautiful and bold young woman. Observed her in the practice yards with a sword, actually, and wanted her. Pursued her, aggressively.” Though neither would ever tell him the details of those days. His fingers clench around the goblet. “Until he finally convinced her to relent to his advances. And it wouldn’t be until after, when I returned home for the evening, that he found out he had ravished my sister.”

Khadgar is silent for a long time. For a moment, Lothar believes he’s put the young man to sleep. Then, “You called him brother.”

Lothar shakes himself from his thoughts. “And my sister calls him her heart. That story was the beginning of many. We’ve all grown since then.”

“I don’t know that I could ever call him brother.” Khadgar says.

Lothar knows this is unfair to Llane, that Khadgar knows this story, unquestionably the darkest in his king’s otherwise shining past, before meeting the man himself. But there’s nothing to do about it now, except smile  and be concerned about how languid and warm he is, how warm and unconcerned the wine has made him feel. “That’s just it, isn’t it? You don’t know.”


End file.
